Sharp Words Can Straighten Things Out
by nightfuries
Summary: While awaiting the return of his prep team, Marvel strikes up an unlikely conversation with a tribute he can't see, a tribute whose identity he doesn't know. He shouldn't even be talking to her; she's probably an outlier. But he can't help it. Random title, randomer oneshot, still, hope everyone enjoys it


_**This is just a small idea I had after seeing the layout of the Remake Centre in the Hunger Games movie. Sorry if the characters are OOC, you don't have much to go on with Marvel in the books or movies, so I kind of just made stuff up :) This is also my first attempt at a serious oneshot, so it probably won't work out too well. Still, I hope everyone enjoys it!**_

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"Oh, dearie, you look absolutely fantastic!"

"I'm so glad we got District 1 this year. At least you knew what personal grooming and hygiene was _before_ we got to you!"

"In fact, we're almost done! We'll just go grab the razors, stay right there, honey!"

As if I could do anything else.

I sigh as all three members of my prep team run off, presumably in search of these "razors". I don't know how big the blades must be if all three have to go and get them, but it sure doesn't help calm my nerves. Not to mention the fact that they've already scoured my body for any unwanted hair; I don't know what's left for them to cut.

The bed creaks as I attempt to move, but the cool feeling of a liquid-like gel sliding over my stomach forces me to stop almost immediately. Opeyth, the most eccentric of my prep team (what, with her purple and yellow striped skin), had spread the substances over me only a few moments earlier, claiming it would help make my skin look shinier and therefore attract more attention from those watching in the Capitol.

"You've got some wonderfully toned muscles down there, honey, and we want to make sure everyone knows to look at them!"

Crazy woman.

But helpful, I'll admit. You do what you can to get sponsors, that's what my grandfather always says. He's even taken to showing me some pictures from his time in the chariot rides and interviews for the Games, to demonstrate what he looked like. I tried to pay attention – anything to help me in the Games – but there's something incredibly disturbing about seeing your grandfather young and dressed up in some ridiculous, frilly pink costume supposedly representing "luxury".

God, I hope they don't stick me in something similar.

As the gel prevents me from moving too much for fear of having it slide off, I'm forced to remain lying on my back and staring up at the bland ceiling of the Remake Centre. Originally, the screen fixed up there was showing me constant replays of various Hunger Games, but after my prep team asked if I had a specific match I wanted to watch, I told them to turn it off. It's hard enough waiting a week for the Games to start; watching reruns on TV only serves to make my arms and legs tingle with adrenaline at the thought that _I'll _be the one on that screen in a week. I should be happy at the thought, but all it makes me feel right now is an uncomfortable surge of anticipation. It's like I've become as hyper as my youngest sister, and it's an energy I can't vent. Especially when I'm stuck on this freaking table waiting for a prep team that probably got lost searching for their silly razors.

"Annoying you too?"

The sound makes me freeze immediately, though it's really not much of a change from my current actions. Still, I can feel my muscles tense as the voice registers in my head, distinctly lacking the ridiculous accent that would mark the speaker as a Capitolite. But that doesn't make sense; no one else would be talking to me as this point, would they?

"What?" I'm not sure if responding is one of the best ideas, but I can't help my curiosity at this new voice. Beats laying around waiting for my prep team, I guess.

"You sighed. I thought you sounded annoyed."

Definitely not a Capitolite speaking. The voice is lower, and there's no telltale hiss on the letter s that my prep team makes constantly. The words come from right next to me, and as I try to crane my neck without upsetting the fluid on my stomach, I realise the speaker must be right next to me, separated only by a thin length of pale blue curtain. Another tribute then, it must be. But not one I recognise.

"Why are you talking to me?"

The girl – definitely a girl, though it's lower than a Capitolite, her voice is still relatively high – takes a moment before responding. "I don't know. It's just weird not having people talk all of a sudden."

That I can understand. The members of my prep team barely even stopped to breathe between all their excited chatting about this year's Hunger Games. And before I can stop myself, remind myself that I may be conversing with an outlier, someone from a higher district with much lower status, I ask another question. "Your prep team gone too?"

"Yeah. They went off to find a 'straightener', they said." She pauses, then adds, "It sounds painful."

Definitely an outlier, or a poorer Career, at least. Being in District 1, incredibly well-off and having four sisters, I know a little _too_ much about all the hair and makeup products. "Look at your son!" my grandfather said one day when I'd once again fallen prey to my three elder sisters, who love to experiment with makeovers as long as it's not on themselves. "With all you girls around, you'll turn him into a weak-kneed wimp before he even begins school! What will the other boys think? The _real_ ones, ones with Career training to make their fathers proud!"

Well, my father passed away, so I guess my grandfather decided to fill in his missing place in my life. Not exactly something I wanted or needed, but you can't just walk up to someone like Gregorius Seekwin and say that.

Anyways, no way I'm going to fill this outlier girl in on what a straigtener is; I'm a Career to be respected and feared, not some seventeen-year-old boy who spent his whole life helping his sisters get ready for their parties and dates. I'm a warrior, the next Gregorius Seekwin! I'm-

"-still there?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, good." Her tone is relieved. "I thought you'd left."

Now I can hear the youth in her voice, the high quality that marks her not only as a girl, but as a younger tribute. She sounds so vulnerable, but I'm still set on edge from thoughts about my grandfather as my response is rather harsher than I intended. "Scared before you even get to the Games? Good luck lasting past the bloodbath then."

Nothing but silence answers my words, and I feel an almost sick satisfaction that I've managed to shut the little girl up. What right does she have anyways, to start up a conversation with one of the biggest threats in this year's Games? She might even die by my hand; the odds already aren't in her favour.

But as the heavy silence grows, I start to feel something almost like regret. There's something in this girl's voice that almost reminds me of Satyn, although my little sister's only eight and this tribute must be at least twelve. Thinking back to the night on the train where we watched the recaps, I try to remember if any twelve-year-olds were reaped. But it's pointless; Glimmer and I were only interested in our allies and the potential competition, everyone else was written off as bloodbaths and instantly forgotten.

The silence is really getting to me know as I realise I miss having something to do other than stare at the blank TV screen hooked up to the ceiling. But it's more than that; I sort of miss having someone to talk to that can, I don't know, be normal, I guess? These Capitol people are anything but, and while I enjoy talking with Glimmer, it's always about the Games and our strategies, which just makes me anxious.

"Hey." Idiot, what are you doing? But before I can stop myself, I'm finishing my sentence. "You still there?"

For a short moment, it doesn't seem as though she's going to respond and to my surprise, a small trickle of dismay runs through me at the thought. But then there's the faint sound of another mattress creaking as the tribute next to me moves slightly and the next thing that reaches my ears is an equally faint, "Yeah."

The now glummer tone to her voice, mixed with the slight edge of accusation causes something inside me to twitch uncomfortably. I feel oddly guilty, like I do whenever I make the mistake of lashing out at Satyn or one of my older sisters. This outlier is not my family though, and doesn't require or deserve my apology, yet still the words that flow from my mouth are, "I'm sorry."

Another short pause while she mulls this over, and I try to keep myself from getting to excited to hear her respond. Then, "It's okay. I think we're all a little nervous."

I respond without thinking. "Yeah." Then it occurs to me what I just said. "What? No!" I'm a Career, a trained Career who volunteered for this! I'm not, I'm not nervous. I'm not. "I'm not."

"That's what my district partner said too when I asked him. Or at least, he kinda said it. He doesn't talk much. But I think we're all a little nervous."

I have no idea who her district partner is and I really don't care. Chances are he's some other scrawny outlier, but even if he was one of our threats, I wouldn't know his name. We've simple listed them as Big Guy From 11, Girl With Potential Pity Sponsors From 12, and so on. But the name isn't what gets me; it's the implication we're all scared for the Games. I'm not. "Gregorius Seekwin was never afraid!" my grandfather'd always recount loudly. "Not in the bloodbath, not during the mutt attack, and not even in the final battle! Real men, real _Careers_ are never afraid. Are you a real Career, Marvel? Or just some sissy little boy who has more skill with a makeup brush then a spear?"

"I'm a Career," I say loudly, perhaps a little _too_ loud. "I volunteered for this. There's no way I'm afraid."

More silence follows this little outburst, and I've just begun to think I've scared her off when the quiet voice floats through my ears once more. "You volunteered?"

Not exactly what I was expecting. I assumed she'd be saying something more along the lines of "A Career? Oh, no! Mercy, please, don't kill me in the Games." What, has she never heard of the reputation behind us Careers? Maybe she's just slow. "Yes, of course."

"Why?"

Fame and fortune. Enjoyment of the Games. A thousand preconceived answers pop into my head, ones I was planning on using for the interviews when they finally rolled around. But though I have confidence that I'd be able to spew these lies to Caesar Flickerman and the entire population of Panem, I can't seem to spit them out now to this faceless, nameless girl. Why did I volunteer? Because of my grandfather. Because I was tired of being the laughing stock at District 1's Training Centre. Because I don't want to be known as the girly guy with four sisters and a mother who've made him such a wimp.

Why am I thinking like this?

"None of you business," is all I can manage to spit out, and this time, I fully intended to be as harsh as possible. Hopefully that'll shut her up for good. And as seconds pass without an answer, this seems to be the case. Well, good. I don't need to talk to her anymore, what kind of a tribute even decides to strike up a conversation here in the-

"I'm sorry."

Two words, two simple words, but they catch me completely off guard. What? What could she possibly be sorry for? I'm the one from District 1, I have a nice house, plenty of food and I _chose_ to be in these Games and actually stand a chance, while the odds were against her the moment they picked her name from that glass bowl. And she's sorry for _me_? The outlier districts really are full of crazy people.

But instead of pointing this out, I just gruffly say, "It's fine." Glimmer would laugh at this girl, and even though I haven't met them yet, I'm sure most of my other allies would do the same. But I just can't bring myself to.

What is wrong with me today?

"You broke the straightener?!"

The new, screeching voice is so hard on my ears I have to fight the urge to cover them with my hands. I'm sort of glad I don't though, or I would have missed the girl's next words as she sighs and says, "There's Daedla."

"Member of your prep team?" Yikes, she sounds even worse than Opeyth.

"I wasn't sure at first. She looked more like a giant cat with the fur and tail."

The noise I make is somewhere between a surprised laugh and a choke. "What?"

"Her fur and tail. I don't know which is worse. The tail twitches from time to time and it's really creepy, but then with the fur she _sheds_ all over me."

I can't stop myself from laughing at that, and past the curtain, the girl sounds like she is as well. "I'm serious!"

"Oh, I don't doubt that. If she's anything like _my_ prep team . . ."

"What are they like?"

I pause for a second, bringing to mind the image of Opeyth. "Striped skin. Purple and yellow." The girl giggles. "And she's got these weird gem things implanted in her that glow so brightly when the light hits them, she's blinded the other two twice. I was worried they'd accidently shave my nose off."

The girl laughs again and I do too, though part of me is wondering what the heck I'm doing. _Outlier!_ my mind screams. _She's a stupid outlier that's probably going to die in the bloodbath._ But at this moment, I find I can almost ignore that fact. Right now, we're both victims and have equal chances of suffering a terrible fate at the hands of our crazy prep team.

"Really Kelle, you had to trip over the lamp cord? I don't believe it!"

"Oh no," the girl beside me moans. "She's getting closer."

"Watch out for hairballs," I say quickly, and I can hear a short giggle before it's cut off, presumably by the arrival of her prep team.

"So sorry, dear," I can hear he screechy woman, Daedla say. "We ran all through the building trying to find where a certain _someone_-" She pauses, and I can just imagine this giant cat/woman thing glaring at whoever was responsible, "-tripped and dropped it! Can you believe it? And we could have made your hair look so nice!"

"I'm sorry." Well, the girl's more tolerant with her prep team then I'd be, I'll give her that.

"Oh, it's not your fault, dearie. Well, I guess there's not much we can do now except send you off to your stylist. He's very eager to meet you, Rue."

I can hear movement as the girl gets up and follows her prep team off, but she must have gone the other way because I don't see her pass by as she leaves. I'll see her tonight though, when all the tributes gather for the beginning of the chariot rides. Weird that, while she'll be there, I'll have no idea which one she is.

Still, it's almost, I don't know . . . comforting? That I know she'll be around. I may not know her district, or her appearance or even her age, but now I have a name. Rue.

I don't know who she is, but I hope I never meet up with the nervous, kind little girl in the arena.


End file.
